


Schadenfreude

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [10]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Double Penetration, Drowning, Established Relationship, M/M, Mistakes, Rough Sex, murder gone wrong, odalisque verse, vignettes of sex and violence verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Scary doctor Lecter lost a body on his table,” Will clicks his tongue, drawing a hand over his lips to try and fail at erasing a smile there. “Only, this one ran, literally, from it. I suppose there is a first time for everything.”</i>
</p><p>Sometimes distractions happen and people just refuse to die.</p><p>Or.</p><p>When Hannibal botches up dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Schadenfreude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diedofennui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diedofennui/gifts).



> For the lovely, incredible, irreplaceable [ponfarrtingspock](http://ponfarrtingspock.tumblr.com/), who commissioned this gem from us. We hope you like it bb, a mix of crack, violence and murderpups for you :D

The water feels good. It feels very good. Slicking a parched throat, soothing into his stomach, and Will allows a groan, short, as he catches the last drops with his wrist against his lips and closes his eyes to savor the feeling.

He shifts just a little in pleasure, reaching for his towel, the stretch still warm between his legs. It was a perfect night - perfect company and perfect fucking and perfectly depraved. Towel tucked to hang low against his hips, his bare feet click across the tile floor as he makes his way to the kitchen, greedy for another drink.

Hannibal is at work again, preparing breakfast for tomorrow, certainly, the rest frozen, perhaps, or worked into a slow-cooked evening meal before Hannibal goes off-island again for the monthly book market and Will… he isn’t sure. He’ll follow, perhaps, it hardly matters.

Will raises his eyes from the label of the bottle of wine, older than he is, at the hurried sound of footsteps, uneven but quick. He licks his lips and sets the glass aside, taking the necessary four steps back to see the corridor properly, and has to step back again as movement barrels past him, too fast to catch, and slams the front door before Will can get a good enough look.

Will blinks, eyes flicking between the front and basement door, and frowns.

“Hannibal?”

\---

_Three hours earlier._

“I’m studying journalism, but I was hoping to get into screenwriting.”

Dark eyes and blond hair, curly and weaving just as Will’s. Square face and wide smile, lips that always seemed tilted at the corners in a perpetual smirk. Will had seen him first, had pressed against Hannibal for just a moment and it was enough.

Him.

They needed him.

“For film?” Hannibal asks, toeing off his shoes to leave beside the door. He pauses in his movements as Will curls his arms over the boy’s shoulders, and nuzzles into his cheek until blonde curls intertwine with mahogany, full lips tracing kisses against the little writer’s freckled cheek.

“For television,” he answers. He spans a hand over Will’s arms, laughing as Will locks them tighter around his throat, teasing, to pull the university student back against his chest. “There’s no money in writing for film anymore.”

Hannibal hums. If it were possible for him to feel less regret about this than he already does, then this remark alone would prove reprieve from the burden of that particular emotion. But he has felt nothing of the sort all night, instead relishing the way the curves of the boys’ bodies fit beautifully together, lithe and lovely.

His job in this is a simple one. He ensured that drinks were plentiful, stronger than requested, not enough to drunken him but enough to make questionable intentions seem entirely genuine - enough to make their ideas for the evening seem, on the surface, like the boy’s own. Hannibal’s smile curves wider as Will grasps the student’s jaw and turns him to bring their mouths together, a sloppy kiss eager enough that they stumble a little, laughing softly.

“But there are stories to tell,” Hannibal notes, and Will shoots him a look of narrow pleasure as the older man doesn’t let it slide. “Perhaps in your gap year, you will find lessons worth remembering.”

"Maybe," the boy laughs, hands seeking and wandering just as Will’s are, little and curious, before Will catches him with a hand between his legs and rubs, deliberate, until the boy moans. "That's not fair."

"You could always touch me back," Will grins, releasing the kid and stepping backwards towards the stairs, watching the boy follow, knowing that Hannibal follows him. It is just like any game with them - Will lures, seduces, plays, Hannibal takes his fill of sex and youth and takes his time watching it fade beneath his hand.

Will has grown used to the bite of jealousy, still hot against him, has grown used to the reward of being fucked senseless after, torrid things poured into his ears from warm lips as he’s taken, reminded, claimed and worshiped.

Will is no longer reluctant in their games.

He stumbles through the door after directing the boy and wrestles him giggling to bed, spreading his legs eagerly for him to touch as Will seeks silly little kisses from his lips.

"Will you write about me?" Will purrs. “Would I be the hero or the villain?"

The boy rubs himself against Will’s hand, reaching down to free his cock for Will to grasp properly and sighing a shuddering little sound when he does. “You look like a hero,” he considers, reaching down to grab Will’s shirt and pull it off over his head. “I think that would make you a more interesting villain. No one would expect it.”

Will catches the boy’s bottom lip between his teeth, grinning as he holds it before sucking it slowly between his own with a moan. Hannibal watches sidelong, a smile quirking the corner of his lips, and takes his time removing each article of clothing, each hung or deposited for wash, content to take his time and watch the puppies at play, one entirely unaware that the other is a wolf in hound’s clothing.

But Hannibal knows. Hannibal delights in it. As much if not more than his own hunting, to see Will flourish and become so skilled at pursuit is a source of pride and arousal all at once. A shiver is scarcely concealed as Will gasps, the boy’s fingers fisted in his hair to pull, but the little tug eases back into a kiss where tongues sweep between open mouths and moans escape each when they meet.

“What sort of villain would I be?” Will demands, clothes tossed all over the bed and bodies bared by quick fingers. He sits astride the other boy’s stomach, earning another lilting laugh, and rolls his hips when the little writer takes his cock in hand.

“Will enjoys hearing about himself,” remarks Hannibal, dire amusement in his tone as he approaches the bed to observe, for now.

"I'm enjoying talking about him," the boy admits, as Will grins, bends and arches and presses one way and another. "Seductive," he says at length, stroking Will deliberately. “Shy, unassuming. If I didn't know better, you would be the kinda boy to sell yourself, kill anyone who buys you and treats you wrong."

"But you know better," Will purrs, entirely delighted by this, feeling Hannibal draw cool knuckles up his spine to make him arch before he splays a hand at his neck to bend Will beautifully down, hips up, to kiss the boy beneath him. He is startlingly insightful, yet entirely unaware of just how much he sees. It makes the game so much more fun.

Hannibal guides little hands over Will’s thighs, over his hips and down until Will shudders in pleasure, not yet fingered but teased.

"Will seems to enjoy a lot of things," the boy comments, breathless, as Will bends to nuzzle beneath his jaw, arching back, begging in quiet motions for more.

“He is full of surprises,” Hannibal responds, pleased by the compliments paid to his own boy, the praise and unwitting adulation of skills that the writer has yet to see. In reward, Hannibal reaches beneath where the blonde’s fingers tease, to take his cock in hand and surround him firmly, stroking hard, slow pulls to hear the sounds he makes. Deep, resonant hums each time Hannibal pulls, pitching higher on the downstroke.

An exquisite counterpoint to the quicker, higher whimpers of his little wolf.

“Beautiful,” murmurs Hannibal, before releasing the boy’s cock to watch it settle against the cleft of Will’s ass.

Lesson learned from hunts past, Hannibal moves to straddle the blonde’s legs and grasps Will by the jaw to pull him back against himself. He turns his head to the side and wraps their mouths together, to taste his boy, to taste the wine, to taste this new acquaintance beneath them. He does not release him, fingers tight enough to curve fingernail marks white into his cheeks, until Will whimpers.

“There is lubricant beside the bed,” Hannibal murmurs against Will’s mouth, eyes focused on the blonde beneath. “Open our little villain here enough for us both.”

The boy blinks, at once aroused and nervous, until Will fold his bottom lip into his mouth and closes his eyes in a look of genuine need, until the flush slips down his neck. Then he just swallows and shifts back enough to grab the bottle, seemingly unused, and work it open. Will is still held, on his knees and vulnerable, cock already curved up against his stomach and pink, thighs trembling when Hannibal shifts his knees to spread him further.

He is such a pretty thing.

The boy presses in one finger and Will moans, squirming on it and tensing his muscles over and over in a semblance of shyness, newness in this, though he has done this so often now, and in such different ways that the only novelty in this endeavor is the lube involved at all. That and the fact that Hannibal purrs soft in his ear, in sweet, quiet German, that he is going to take them both and be grateful for it.

“You ever done this before?” The boy asks, and Will shakes his head, grinning.

“Never,” he stutters, two fingers now, curling, seeking. “Never two… two at once, no.”

Dark eyes seek Hannibal’s and the kid frowns, tilts his head. “Shit… you still gonna make him do it?”

“Are you concerned for him?” Hannibal asks, as the boy looks between his eyes and Will’s parted lips, panting warm little breaths each time fingers are pushed inside of him. Reaching past Will, Hannibal smooths the soft golden curls back from the boy’s face, smile deepening the crinkles beside his eyes as the sweet little thing tilts his head into the touch, lips just grazing his palm, and eyes holding on Will, who for all of his affected nervousness hardly seems remiss at the idea. “Empathy is an important trait for any writer,” praises Hannibal. “Just as much as exploration. One cannot effectively write that which they’ve not experienced.”

The boy spreads his fingers and lets out another low sound when Will coils and pushes back against his touch. “You haven’t asked him if he wants it,” murmurs the writer, and Hannibal hums acquiescence.

“Neither have you.” Hannibal curves a hand against Will’s throat, pressed high to raise his chin and force the bend in his spine just a little deeper. Amusement brightens his tone as Hannibal turns his nose against Will’s temple and asks, “Well, little wolf?”

Will squirms, a shivering little note from between his pressed lips before he parts them, seeks his hand down to stroke himself even as Hannibal hums against him in gentle warning to stop.

“I always want,” he purrs, twisting his wrist and smiling when it’s gently taken away and he’s left hard and twitching without relief for the moment. He turns in Hannibal’s hand enough that he can be kissed, eyes closed and playing up the neediness, the soft little sounds and trembles that take him. He moans, low and warm, as the boy adds another finger to stretch him, and reaches to grasp for him too, fingers through his hair and down to his face, laughing when his fingertips are gently bitten for his trouble.

“Should I ask you too?” Hannibal murmurs, smiling as the blonde laughs and his cheeks bloom brightly beneath the scatter of freckles. The boy shakes his head and with his fingers hooked against Will’s bottom teeth, he brings him closer to kiss again.

Hannibal takes the bottle left aside with a faint pleasure at the concept of it, bought solely for the purposes of putting his hand inside Will to feel him shudder hot and sob weak, allowed now if only not to raise alarm in their new friend. Slick fingers, cold enough to make Will twitch and shiver, slather against Will’s opening, over the boy’s fingers that fuck into Will faster now that the way has been eased. Hannibal takes the liberty of stroking it glistening up the boy’s length, grateful when at least he doesn’t fuss about protection, too.

A lovely little thing with lovely little concerns.

Guiding the blonde’s cock, fingers snared tight around the golden curls at the base of it, Hannibal leans forward to press his mouth to Will’s shoulder, teeth catching skin, and gaze solely focused on the boy atop which they rut. He can see the little writer, finding a job writing copy perhaps for a local paper, editorials perhaps, his own investigations. One would snare him, keep him awake at night and drive him to his keyboard, push him out into the world to discover and learn, as story and plot unfolded in tandem. He would come to know the pull of the muse, the blissful fugue states where hours - days - pass and words erupt from him in gouts of inspiration, a rush that he would spend the rest of his life pursuing.

Honing his skill.

Excelling.

Hannibal’s cock twitches roughly as he feels Will sink himself down onto the boy and he hardly waits before lining himself up in turn.

Will tenses, gasping out against the boy beneath him as he’s pulled close, pushed closer still. He feels Hannibal’s hand against the small of his back where it bends him to arch further, to take more even as his body resists it.

It always resists.

And he always takes.

Will moans, helpless hurt little things, and nuzzles down over the boy who soothes him with softly muttered curses and praise. He’s younger than Will, in truth, just barely eighteen, but Will had played himself littler, as always, _just moved here, trying to make friends_. He tangles his fingers in Will’s hair, catches Hannibal’s eye and turns his wrist just enough to make Will bare his throat, make him unable to stifle his little sounds of pain at the tightness of this, the pressure and heat of it.

“Fuck,” Will sighs, laughs, trembles, “fuck, fuck.”

A snarl is felt across his shoulder but it only brightens Will’s laugh, until Hannibal shoves into him hard enough to hitch his breath and cut it short. The interplay goes unnoticed by the blonde whose eyes have rolled blissfully closed from the movement, moaning low, and for a moment Hannibal wonders if he might be able to strike Will and have it go unseen.

No, he decides. He will count, and his boy will pay for each violation three-fold when they are done.

Hannibal allows himself distraction from the monstrosity of Will’s mouth and absorbs instead the feel of his boy stretched so wide, squeezing so tightly, and the sensation of another cock rubbing slick against Hannibal’s own. They find a rhythm, each pushing in when the other does and delighting as Will shudders, trembling, each withdrawing only to shove roughly back inside him again.

“Touch him,” Hannibal tells their little writer, who grabs Will’s cock and eagerly begins to jerk him off, and the shiver that rockets through Will tightens his hole enough that Hannibal’s voice breaks on a moan, a rare sound of abandon. He raises his fingers, to trace the scarlet muscle stretched so thin, rubbing against the heat of it, pressing as if to fit his fingers in, as well.

“No, no -” It’s only partially a feign, it hurts and Will relishes pushing back against them both, squeezing his fingers in the sheets by the boy’s head, curling his hand to draw nails down his back and feel him, in turn, arch up, push deeper.

It is an exquisitely unusual feeling, not quite the same as having Hannibal’s hand in him entirely, though the tightness is similar. No, this is alive, constant motion and blissful torment against his prostate as Will ducks his head and shivers, twists, squeezes his muscles and moans.

“God you’re so fucking close,” the boy pants, leaning up to kiss Will as he hums and laughs his agreement between their lips, toes curling, thighs shaking with how wide they’re spread as he’s pounded, back against one man, down against another, over and over. “You wanna cum?”

“I wanna cum,” Will whimpers softly, turning his head enough to catch a kiss against his cheek but not permission, and he sobs, the soft little noises he knows Hannibal loves hearing so, so much. “Hannibal, let me?”

“You make him ask?” The boy is breathless, delighted, pupils blown and lips red. Hannibal hums against his boy.

“He likes to ask.”

“Will you let him?”

“Not yet,” sighs Hannibal, spreading a hand over Will’s chest to feel his heart throb wild, pushing it down across the fine hair on his belly, to fold over the blonde’s own fingers and squeeze Will’s cock even tighter. Will whimpers, voice breaking sweet and high, his panted breath turned into a volley of begging, each plea shaking as hard as the boy himself.

Hannibal fucks him harder, breaking the steady rhythm into dissonance, the younger boy and the older man each taking their own satisfaction of the one trembling between them.

“Wait,” he tells Will again, biting hard against his shoulder in warning. “Wait, Will.”

“I’m gonna -”

Hannibal’s eyes lift sharp and sudden to the beautiful blonde, the talented writer, the lovely boy with stars in his eyes and the rest of his life spread before him, the world and all in it his to explore. Releasing his grip, Hannibal leans low over Will, chin on his shoulder to nuzzle against his cheek. He snakes his hands over Will’s shoulders, smoothing back the little writer’s hair once more, tracing the boyish soft curves of his face, before he surrounds his neck with brutal fingers and clenches.

Will cries out, a sharp, short thing and holds still, hands down against the bed and eyes open because he knows he’s meant to watch, because he wants to watch. The reaction does not take long, the boy already a bit squeamish with things not directly related to penetrative sex, and he gasps, brings his hands up to claw at the ones that press to him.

He notices, with amusement, with sick fondness, that Hannibal takes his time with this, it is not the quick press to the artery to let the kid fall before he kills him, no, this is the rough inexperience of Will before he learned, before he was taught how to hold and press and twist just right for it to be easy, quick, beautiful.

Beneath him, the boy jerks, the weight of both men holding him down as he struggles, futile, and pulls more sweet little sounds from Will’s throat that he couldn’t stop if he tried. It’s too tight, too hot, too good, and he can see the way the boy’s eyes blow, now, in terror, not with sex, the way he is pushed into Will by sheer force of desire from Hannibal.

He has never seen someone die like this before.

Not with Hannibal.

On his own, he gives them the mercy of being allowed to cum first.

But this… this draws Will’s breathing short, in sympathy, and he leans in to press his lips against the boy’s cheek where he struggles, where his hands seek out, desperate, to cling to Will’s hair and pull it hard, to grip against his mouth and recoil only when Will bites and holds.

“Not even a kiss in thanks for his mercy?” Hannibal sighs against Will’s cheek, focused on the younger man beneath them, taking in the spread of darkness over his face, his blush turned to a deeper crimson, lips purpling for a moment before Will closes his own over them to taste the writer’s final desperate struggle.

With a twist of hips, Will shoves himself roughly back against the two cocks inside of him, hard enough that Hannibal finally relents in his grip, and the only movements of the lovely blonde beneath them are those of Will and Hannibal astride. Rough fingers snare Will around his throat, Hannibal jerking his boy back against his chest, and his gasps stagger, hot and dizzy, against Will’s shoulder as he thrusts arrhythmic and brutal into him.

“Now,” snarls Hannibal, hissed through clenched teeth and curled lips, as his own release spasms free.

Will makes a sound like a strangled howl, a pulled and low thing that makes him shake in Hannibal’s hold, press his forehead to the boy beneath him, his lips still parted and red, eyes closed now, perhaps in resignation, perhaps in a strange need to not see this as his last dying moment.

“Fuck, Hannibal, oh fuck.” Will doesn’t care, for the moment, for his language or what it means, he shakes between the two bodies and levers himself up a little higher to push back against Hannibal’s warmth. “Christ, you’ve never let me do that before,” he laughs, delighted, and turns his head to seek Hannibal’s lips.

“As much yours to claim as mine,” Hannibal grins, before tilting Will’s head aside in a rough nuzzle to bring their mouths together. He rocks against him again, just to feel that pressure, that heat, the sensation of another still hard inside, and then relents, sighing as he shifts his weight back to pull out.

Will sighs in a gust and slumps forward, head bowed and hands against the sheets, before working himself free as well. Slipping to his side, he curls and stretches, all but preening as he slips fingers down against himself to feel his opening still stretched so wide, damp with lube and cum. Brightly, he laughs, rubbing his cheek against the sheets and watching as Hannibal stands, fingers trailing down Will’s still-heaving ribs.

“Go and bathe, little wolf. I will tend to our guest. And perhaps you, again, when I am finished.”

Will wrinkles his nose in pleasure and stretches his arms over his head before pushing himself to stand, with a wince, and make his way to the bathroom.

\---

“Hannibal!” He calls again, releasing a long breath through his nose, before turning on his heel to make his way to the basement, on his toes to avoid most of the cold steps and the stone floor. He can hear breathing from the far end, slightly labored. Will considers the possibility of an almost divine intervention, that the kid lived, but why he would still be breathing is beyond him, with Hannibal here.

Of course, he could as easily not be here.

Will lets out a breath as he finally makes his way into the pool of light around the large metal table that stands empty. He regards Hannibal beside it and parts his lips with his tongue, a quick turn to look over his shoulder before looking back.

“A new game?”

Hannibal’s lip curls over clenched teeth, and it’s only then that Will notices how pale he is. The way his hair has spilled into his face. How he clutches his side over a dark stain spreading beneath it.

That the table is empty.

“You let him go,” Hannibal seethes.

Will’s eyes widen, he glances over his shoulder and back again. “I -”

“Stand here. Stand here and stare, Will. Will, whose name he knows. My name, he knows. Our home, he _knows_ , you wretched -”

Stepping forward forces Hannibal to grimace, and he plants a hand on the table.

Will just stands a moment more, lips parted in genuine shock, eyes wide before he narrows them, crosses his arms over his middle.

“I’m wretched?” Will asks him, tone curling in a mixture of displeasure and amusement. “When you can’t even strangle a fucking kid properly? Whatever the hell he did to you there, you deserved that, at least.”

Will raises an eyebrow at Hannibal as the other glares at him, livid. “A kid, Hannibal! He’s younger than I am!”

“Another word, and you will replace him on the table,” snarls Hannibal, gaze sharpening when Will laughs and takes another step back, bare feet sliding easily over the floor.

“Right, and I’ll get back up again apparently,” Will snorts, sidestepping readily when Hannibal lunges for him and misses, blood spattering the floor as the wound in his side, soaking dark into his shirt, pulls wider.

“He must have been unconscious -”

“Mm.”

“- and the cold from the table stirred him -”

“I see.”

“- he took the scalpel,” Hannibal breathes, lifting his hand to study the blood across it before placing it back against his side. “A more apt pupil than you,” he spits, when Will stifles another laugh.

“Scary doctor Lecter lost a body on his table,” Will clicks his tongue, drawing a hand over his lips to try and fail at erasing a smile there. “Only, this one ran, literally, from it. I suppose there is a first time for everything.”

“Will -” There is a warning there, a very real one, and were Will not equally pleased and angry he would actually heed it, as it stands he shakes his head.

“If this were me, you’d have my hide. What should I do to you?”

“Don’t tempt me, Will -”

“To try and fail to kill me? Again?” Will raises an eyebrow, dodges another lunge, and this time curses quietly before slipping his towel from around his waist and pressing it to Hannibal’s side, a deliberately cruel twist of fingers to cause the man to cry out at the pain of it.

“You didn’t manage to make a kid dead,” Will lists, setting one hand against the other to count off on his fingers. "Proceeded to _lose_ dinner. I don’t even trust you to make it anymore, what if it’s undercooked?”

The look Hannibal gives him is beyond a level of anger Will has ever seen on the man before, and Will relents with a sigh, drawing a hand over his face before tapping his fingers against his lips, watching Hannibal adjust how the towel is pressed against his wound. Then he sighs again, steps closer and catches Hannibal’s hand before the man can strike him, leveling him with a look before pressing his lips in a chaste kiss against Hannibal’s snarl.

“I’ll get him," he says, put-upon and petulant, before kissing him again and bouncing on the balls of his feet before turning to run.

Running, Will has always been very good at.

The night air snaps chill against his skin, still shower-warm, and Will laughs towards the stars. He takes the long stairs two at a time, the only viable exit unless the boy plunged into the bushes, landing only on his toes as he propels himself down. The moon is bright enough to account for the lack of light, the distant neighbors' houses equally dark at this hour. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and squints, lower lip between his teeth.

He might have run uphill again, a steep climb or a very long one if he found the winding driveway that would eventually bring him to the road. Will steps quietly forward, senses so sharpened by adrenaline that he can quiet even the thump of his heart to stillness.

And then he sees them - shadowy marks disrupting wind-soothed sand, lit upon their crests by white moonlight - and he grins.

The beach.

Poor choice, but logical. Will doesn’t even run there, he strolls. Takes his time, care, to step into every print left in the sand by the fleeing boy. He wonders if the kid thinks perhaps that more houses lead to the beach, that more people will be awake enough to hear him. He wonders if he knows of the Greek proclivity for early rest and deep sleep.

Will shuffles his step, a quick little thing, and tilts his head as he watches the dark shape make its way purposefully through the sand towards the next house over. Will grins, curls his toes in the sand and pushes off at a mild jog towards the other boy, quiet in his footfalls, breathing through his nose until he’s closer, and something, some animal instinct, makes the boy turn.

The terror in his eyes is well worth letting him get a few more steps ahead.

“Come back, you’re running too fast!” Will calls, laughing at his own joke until he catches up with the boy, loping along beside him, not reaching out to grab him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What the _fuck_ Will!?”

Will grins, lifts his eyebrows, turns to run backwards beside him. “You gonna scream for help?” He asks, watches the way the boy’s brows furrow before he stops, tries to elude Will with another maneuver and finds himself tackled to the sand. 

He tries to shout, voice ravaged from the strangulation that left shadow-fingers darkening his throat, but Will claps a hand over his mouth and turns him to his back, sitting heavy on the boy’s belly once more.

“I didn’t think I’d get to kiss you again,” Will purrs, rocking his hips down as the little writer shoves shaking hands against his thighs. He grabs him by the wrist, and pins it above his head, leaning low enough to run his nose against the boy’s cheek, trailing kisses over flushed skin.

“Why?” The boy begs. His voice is muffled beneath Will’s grip but his eyes share the plea, blinking wet and wide.

For a moment Will wonders if there really is a reason or if there has to be one. It is because it is. They are because they are. They do - “Because it’s fun,” he says, offering the boy a little shrug before leaning in to kiss him properly, hand away so he can. 

He jerks at the bite, vicious and sharp, and is distracted enough to not anticipate the fist that comes his way and unbalances him enough for the kid to crawl from beneath him, towards the thicker sand so he can stand, can run along the waterline and find someone, anyone, who will hear. Will doesn’t bother to gentle the collision this time, shoving the boy to the ground, dragging him through the sand until a small wave hits them and he sees the kid’s eyes widen.

“N- !”

Drowning was never Will’s preference for a kill. Sharp salt in the lungs made them difficult to press, bitter to taste. But, he thinks, sucking blood from his own lip as the boy struggles endlessly beneath his hands, at least they don’t have to move.

Straddling the boy, he shoves his feet into the sand and drags him further out, just enough that the movement of the waves does not give him access to the cool wind blowing over the shore and his attempts to shout are silenced, attempts to breathe fill his lungs with water.

Just enough that his thrashing loses its focus.

Just enough that his violence turns to jerky spasms.

Just enough that the boy goes still, and Will holds him just a little longer than that.

With a sigh, Will sits, water rushing cold against his bare skin, foaming around his belly. He lifts his eyes to the sky and waits for his heart to settle, watching as thin clouds slice like razors across the moon.

Hannibal glances upward at the familiar thud of a body against the tile floor. He listens to Will’s feet pad away again, as the boy returns to the beach to kick sand over the telltale parallel lines he dragged through it. Distantly, he can hear the ocean, and sighs relief that can set aside the plans already forming for how they will leave, where, when they will have to split apart and when - if ever - they might be able to rejoin. The walls rebuild as quickly as they were torn down, anger subsiding at least in part that his own misjudgment - blinded by the boy who even now seeks to keep them hidden - lead to this.

In truth, however, had Will not been so distracting, this would certainly never have happened.

Hannibal’s eyes narrow.

When Will finally returns, muscles plucking shrill notes beneath his skin and salt stinging the bite bloodying his lip, he finds Hannibal seated against the wide marble counter in their bathroom. Cigarette dangling from his lips, dressed in little more than his underwear, he sits beside a half-empty bottle of scotch. In his fingers, a curved needle glints beneath the lights, and Hannibal exhales roughly as he holds it aloft to tug the suture tighter. Blood sticks dark against his skin, run through with rivulets of red where the wound still bleeds, a long cut, but no more than half the depth of the scalpel’s blade.

Will licks his lips, watching him for a moment, undone, messy hair, bleeding and smoking and hot with alcohol and anger.

“I don’t think I have ever wanted to fuck you harder in my life, than I do right now,” he murmurs, perhaps to himself, but he does raise his eyes to Hannibal’s when the man looks up, his own narrowing before he presses his lips harder around the filter to suck in a lungful of smoke and exhale it slowly through his nose.

“I cured our meat on the way home,” Will comments, a little louder, a hint of irritation still in his voice as he reminds Hannibal what it was he had just done and why it was he had to do it. “So it keeps longer. Might be bitter from the tension in him.”

Hannibal does not raise his eyes again, and draws a steady breath as the needle presses and pops through the clean-edged cut - that, a relief as much as anything else. Another trickle of blood skims down his side, soaking into his shorts, and Hannibal snorts.

“He was not yours to kill.”

Had the boy stabbed rather than swung, had Hannibal been any closer, the damage might have been vastly worse. Enough to slice through the thin golden layer of fatty tissue, perhaps - had the writer been truly blessed - to Hannibal’s stomach itself.

“Well, you _tried_ ,” Will reminds him, arms crossed but gesturing with fanned graceful fingers before curling them over his elbow again. “It was no trouble,” Will sniffs, parts his lips with his tongue before swallowing and tilting his chin, just so. He knows he’s infuriating him, he knows he’s tugging at a wound much deeper than the one Hannibal is sewing up. His pride will not forget this lightly, and Will certainly shan’t.

“And were I not so blinded by your wanton thrashing, I would have succeeded,” Hannibal rumbles, sucking down another chestful of smoke and letting it spill free in a pale cloud. “My repayment, then, for allowing you to participate. As you said, I have never let you do that before - be so close when I am killing -”

“Attempting,” Will interjects, mildly. “Attempting to kill.”

Hannibal considers snapping the boy’s fingers off clean between his teeth when Will idles close enough to snare the cigarette from his lips, and press it to his own instead. He steps away again, safely out of range from where Hannibal sits with sutures held tight, and settles on the lid of the toilet, knees drawn to his chest and heels perched atop it.

“You could say thank you,” Will adds, and this elicits a genuine curse, savage and sharp.

“I will not.”

Will merely watches, as Hannibal lifts the bottle of scotch first to his lips, and then tips it against his ribs. Another oath is growled out as it washes away the freshest blood, as more blooms bright, as it pools cold around him on the counter.

His hands are shaking when he sets the bottle down.

Will swallows, uncurls his legs to the floor and moves to stand before Hannibal again, leaving the cigarette between his lips as he takes up the needle in his stead.

“Put it down,” Hannibal snarls, and Will raises his eyes to him, expression placid, calm. “You don’t know how to do it properly.”

“I have had practice setting bones, Hannibal,” Will replies, calm, around the cigarette, some ash fluttering to the floor with the motion, “on myself. I can stitch a fucking wound up.”

“Language.”

“You know what, today I plan to swear as much as I fucking want. I’ll consider it your thank you,” Will snaps back, eyes up a moment longer before he settles to one knee to continue what Hannibal had started. His hands work quickly, practiced, sure, and he makes sure to exhale down, through his nose, and away from the blood seeping down Hannibal’s side.

He tilts his head into the fingers that brush against his jaw, relents the smoked cigarette when Hannibal takes it from him to drop with a hiss into the sink.

Without moving more than necessary, Hannibal takes up the bottle again and spills it across his fingers. Almost tenderly, they are pressed to Will’s lip, the boy’s movements going still at the burn of alcohol stinging sharp against the cut. Hand held still, suture kept taut but not stretched, Will remains unmoving as Hannibal’s hand lowers slowly to instead surround his throat.

His tongue parts his lips and he sighs, scotch-rough and tired, “Do not ever again tell me I could not.” The pads of his fingers seek and find the thump of Will’s pulse beneath them, but he does not squeeze. “All I would need are words, Will, and you would split your own ribs wide with trembling fingers, begging me with bloodied lips to consume you while you are still alive to feel it.”

The threat is rare and real, but in Hannibal’s eyes is something far darker than the promise of death. A fear, just as genuine, that perhaps this was not a statistical likelihood that sometime, out of the many whose last breath they savored, something would go wrong. A dread that this is the beginning of something Hannibal has never faced, not in denial but in defiance.

And as his fingers ease to return to the bottle and press it between his lips, there is shame, a resonant regret, that Will was there to see his failing, his weakness. That the man who this little wolf admires so is perhaps simply that - a man, aging, whose bark will soon far outweigh his bite.

“Continue,” Hannibal breathes, the scent of his words hot with scotch and an anger that now smolders inward.

Will watches him a moment longer, watches the way emotions war and flicker against him, rare, this, when he’s tired enough or drunk enough or angry enough to not let them filter but just pass as they would. He sees the way Hannibal turns his eyes away and how his lip flicks up just once, an animal snarl that sends a shiver over Will’s naked form.

Will turns to continue the stitching, just a few more before he ties the knot off, careful, deliberate, and leans in close to bite the needle free. He holds it away, folded into his palm so neither of them can accidentally hurt themselves with it, and presses his lips over the hot skin. Gentle tongue out to lap at the blood pooling just beneath it, lips pressed warm to suck it clean. 

A wolf licking his mate clean.

He continues the soft kisses, the hot tongue, until the bleeding has eased, even a little, and Will instead nuzzles against Hannibal’s ribs. With a sigh, he starts to pull back, turning into the hand that settles in his hair with a smile, shifting to kneel properly and set his temple against Hannibal’s knee, eyes up. He holds out his hand for the bottle.

The man slumps back against the mirror in a sprawl, no strength left in body or in spirit to hold his shoulders back and his spine straight. He slides the bottle across the counter to Will, and ducks his head to study the stitches - evenly placed, consistent tension, not too loose and not tight enough to pucker and scar, though it will, still, a thin pale line that only his boy will be able to find with warm kisses and gentle fingers.

The bottle tips, spilling cold once more over the cut, but Hannibal does not hiss - merely hums, lips pressed tight enough that they whiten before he releases them with a breath.

“We have rubbing alcohol,” Will notes, teasing only gently as he pulls from the bottle himself, and drags damp kisses against the inside of Hannibal’s thigh that spreads wider for him.

“I thought it better to constrain my movement by getting one bottle that would serve both purposes.”

“And you are nearly all the way through it,” Will notes, tone entirely fond, as he settles against his knee again, fingers gentle in stroking up Hannibal’s calf, back down to his ankle. He snorts, quiet, and lifts his eyes to see if Hannibal had heard, reacted at all, to find that he hasn’t, lost somewhere in his mind he doesn’t want Will to go, perhaps ever.

“There was blood on the ceiling,” Will murmurs, lips working before his shoulders shake in a quiet laugh and he grins against Hannibal’s warm skin. “That first time you saw me work. I left blood on the ceiling.”

“Second.”

Will blinks, watches Hannibal’s throat work as he swallows and lets his jaw fall slack, tongue working languidly between his teeth. “The second time I saw your work. The first you allowed to bleed into the carpet of his own filthy apartment.”

Will laughs again, clear, like a bell, and nuzzles even closer against the man before him, who he adores despite the sharp words earlier, despite the spike in adrenaline when he had had to chase their prey outside and hope to hell no one had yet seen him, or tried to help.

“I have grown so much better, because of you,” Will mumbles, lips against Hannibal’s thigh before he kisses there, breathes him in and rests his forehead against it.

At this, finally, Hannibal tilts his head enough to regard the boy - his boy. His little wolf, who stalks and chases and kills. His Will, who does all things not only with skill, but with a grace that leaves Hannibal in wonder far more often than in wrath. He reaches, smoothing Will’s salt-thick hair back behind his ear, and rests his cheek against his shoulder.

“We will share scars then, from our missteps,” Hannibal sighs. “Though mine is hardly so impressive as yours.”

Will’s grin breaks like sunlight through a storm and his cheeks flush with scotch and tenderness as he nuzzles Hannibal’s leg again. “I didn’t get up from mine and try to kill you,” he quips, and Hannibal’s smile catches the corners of his eyes.

“If I might never hunt again,” he murmurs, “then I could be fulfilled in the knowledge alone that you would in my stead.”

Will watches him a moment, expression just adoring in its warmth, flush barely pink over his nose and cheeks, lips bit stark against the pink. Then he twists, just a little, to get to his feet and leans in to kiss Hannibal properly, the first time since the boy was in the bed with them, tongue seeking Hannibal’s and humming when they touch.

“Maudlin,” Will whispers to him when he pulls back, nuzzling his nose with Hannibal’s until both are still, just comfortable to rest together, forehead to forehead.

“You know,” Will muses softly, taking up the bottle again, pulling back enough to take another mouthful of scotch, wincing when it burns his throat, licking his lips. “My ass is really fucking distracting.” He nods, when Hannibal narrows his eyes, amused. “Very. Or so I’m told. Often. By you.”

He steps back, just enough to be out of arm’s reach, bottle dangling from his fingers as he tilts his hips a little, raises up just a little on his toes. “Should I show you?”

“You are a wretch,” Hannibal reminds him, but the words are purred with fondness. “You are seeking to disrupt a rare moment for me, a whiskey-fueled lachrymosity.”

“If you’re still using words like that, you’re not nearly as drunk as you think you are,” Will points out, reasonably. “You’re just pouting.”

Hannibal can’t hide the twitch in the corner of his mouth. “You say that now, because I have been - for now - disabled. Wait until tomorrow, wherein you will spend the day in absolution for your misbehavior.”

“And my good behavior?”

Hannibal hums.

“My good behavior,” purrs Will, leaning onto a hand against Hannibal’s thigh, “like leaving you a freshly drowned boy in the living room.”

“The living room,” sighs the older man, mournful already at the mess he can imagine awaiting him. Mournful, at least, until Will touches beneath his chin to turn his attention from the doorway and back onto himself. “Good behavior,” Hannibal responds, “does not outweigh all the ill.”

He feigns a snap at Will’s fingers and adjusts, shifting uncomfortably in his own body, as Will steps back again. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“About your ass.”

Will’s grin widens.

“Show me, then, if you insist,” Hannibal says. “Insufferable boy.”

**Author's Note:**

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